


When I Die I Don't Want No Part of Heaven

by JerseyGirl324



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Drowning, Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Implied Sexual Content, Knifeplay, M/M, Post-Year That Never Was, Psychological Torture, Strangulation, Torture, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 11:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14043423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerseyGirl324/pseuds/JerseyGirl324
Summary: The Master reminds the Doctor what it means to truly submit.





	When I Die I Don't Want No Part of Heaven

"Theetaaaa..."

His name drifts through the tall red grass like a whisper. He knows the voice, but can’t pinpoint its origin. He listens for a moment longer and decides to head south, towards the second sun blazing up over the horizon. In the distance, the vast slopes of Mount Perdition are on fire with the coming dawn. The grass sways lazily in the breeze as he passes through endless fields in search of his unseen caller.

"Theta!" Closer, more insistent now. 

His intuition was right. He breaks into a run, chasing the rising star, finally arriving at a looming Cadonwood tree. Its silver leaves reflect a brilliant, bright orange. "Hello?" His voice is filled with anticipation as he peers around the wide trunk. There is no one there. "Hello?" he asks again. He circles slowly, and is suddenly grabbed from behind and spun into a tight embrace. He is startled for a moment before a smile spreads across his face at the sight of his laughing accoster.

"What took you so long, my Theta?" 

His companion's eyes dance with conspiratorial amusement. He doesn't have time to respond before being pulled into a kiss. Lips, tongue, and teeth clash in the awkwardness of youthful passion. His fellow Time Lord is possessive, unyielding. He surrenders instinctually to the onslaught. But when he attempts to catch a needed breath, panic hits. The oxygen is gone and his chest might as well be in a vice.

_I can't breathe._ The other Time Lord doesn’t notice his distress, chuckling and pulling him deeper into the kiss. He tries frantically to back away, to make him understand. But he can’t move. Why can’t he move? _Stop! I can’t breathe…_

The Doctor's eyes snap open and he awakens in a haze. Except for a few smoldering candles, the room is dark, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is: his Master’s bed. He can’t recall falling asleep — though his body aches at the lingering memories of being used. And every subtle movement, every twitch of muscle, evokes the throbbing of a bruise, the soreness of a fading welt, the tenderness of a bite. Beneath his robe, his skin is a perverse tapestry of the Master’s creation.

He blinks groggily and tries to sit up, but something is holding him back. There is a firm pressure against his throat. The Doctor turns to find the Time Lord from his dream standing at his side. The Master is in his shirtsleeves, the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone to reveal the smooth skin beneath. How long has he been there? There is a finger on the Doctor’s lips before he can speak.

"Shhhhh. Keep still."

The Master climbs into bed and straddles the Doctor, the end of a slender belt clutched in his fist. The stiff leather is wrapped around the Doctor’s neck. The Doctor is so unnerved that he doesn't register the Master's other hand withdrawing something from his trouser pocket. There's a fleeting glint in the reflected candlelight, then a rush of searing pain as his throat is sliced open. The Doctor’s hands fly to the cut and blood pours through his fingers. He tries to speak, to beg, to ask _why?_ , but no sound comes out. His hearts spring into overdrive as he gazes helplessly up at his old friend. 

"There now," the Master soothes, taking note of the Doctor's pleading eyes, "it's not too deep a wound. Just enough to inhibit your respiratory bypass for a while. I want you to really... _experience_ this." 

_Are you going to kill me?_ The Doctor reaches out with his mind, using the only form of communication left to him. His brain is swimming with shock and he is too weak to struggle. But still he remains conscious. The wonders of Time Lord physiology ⸺ played to chilling effect by an unrepentant psychopath.

The Master smirks. "I might. It _is_ my prerogative, after all."

The threat echoes over the pounding in the Doctor’s temples. The Master grabs his hands and wrenches them up over his head. But instinct drives the Doctor to resist. “Don’t fight,” the Master chides. His fingers bruise the Doctor’s wrists as he holds him firmly in place. “Or I’ll make it worse for you.” 

_P-please. I c-can’t breathe…_

The Master notices tears forming in the Doctor’s bloodshot eyes as he pulls the belt ever tighter. “I’m so _sorry_ , Doctor.” His lips form a theatrical pout. “I know it hurts. You can go ahead and beg, if you like. Or scream…”

The Doctor gapes at him. Even his mind cannot cry out above the faintest whimper. _S-stop, no m-more…_ His head is spinning and everything feels numb. Yet the Master’s voice cuts into every fibre of his being as the room goes fuzzy and he is finally plunged into total darkness.

_“Remember, Doctor. Remember how long you’ve been mine…”_

The Doctor's subconscious is brought to life, vibrant images replacing the stifling blackness. There is no more pain. He lies on his back under the stars as a gentle snow falls onto his upturned face. The red grass of the surrounding field is capped in white. He should be shivering with cold, but there is a warm body nestled beside his, and a blanket protecting them both from the winter chill.

The other Time Lord turns to fix him with the mischievous, penetrating gaze he knows so well. "Are you mine, Theta?" Those eyes always demand a quick answer.

"You know I am, Koschei."

"And is there anything you wouldn't do for me?" His companion inquires slyly, leaning in for a slow kiss. 

"Not that I can think of," Theta murmurs back against his friend's cheek. He can feel Koschei smile at the reply.

"How about this?" A probing hand reaches under Theta’s robe and his breath hitches in arousal. Koschei chuckles, teasing as only he can while kissing melting snowflakes from his friend’s eyelashes. Theta shudders with pleasure as they lie entwined beneath the overcast night sky.

"This?" Koschei pulls his lover into a tighter embrace and rocks his hips rhythmically against him. “Mmmm _yes_ …” comes Theta’s breathless response.

Koschei’s free hand trails leisurely along Theta’s cheek before coming to rest at his throat. The playful expression morphs seamlessly into something more calculated as he applies a light pressure to his neck. When he speaks again, his tone is firm, authoritative like Theta has never heard before. But Koschei has been considering this for a long time. He wants ⸺ _needs_ ⸺ it above all else.

“Submit to me.”

“Wh-what…?” Theta stammers, caught off guard.

“Are you _mine_ , Theta?”

“Y-yes, I told you so.” 

“Mine to do with as I please?” Koschei presses harder on Theta’s windpipe while searching his face for an answer.

There is a glimmer of something more complex beneath the primal fear in Theta’s gaze. Koschei dives deeper, into brown eyes twinkling with starlight, and what he discovers is strikingly clear. _Reverence_. And it is beautiful. Theta understands his need. 

“Yes,” his friend responds steadfastly.

“Yes, _what?_ ”

“Yes, Master…”

As quickly as it came, the memory swirls away like those long-ago snowflakes, and the Doctor is floating back up from the depths. There is light filtering in once again. He can hear someone calling out to him…

"Doctor? _Doctor?_ " 

The Master’s face materializes above him. The stark white cotton of his shirt is coloured with nauseating splashes of crimson. The Doctor breaks the surface of consciousness with a sharp intake of breath; and he _can_ breathe, although the belt is still collaring his neck, the blood coagulating beneath it.

“Do you remember, Doctor?” The Master demands. “Do you remember your promises?”

The Doctor is too disoriented to respond. A few minutes pass in silence as the roar in his ears dies down and his breathing returns to some semblance of normality. The air is heavy with smoke and an unmistakable metallic tang. He fears he might pass out again, and remains motionless and quiet for as long as he can.

"Can you walk?" the Master asks matter-of-factly.

"I'm not sure." The Doctor's voice is a hoarse whisper but he is grateful to find he can speak. And the wound must be shallow, otherwise he would surely have drowned in his own blood by now.

"Let's try then, shall we?

The Master puts an arm around the Doctor and helps prop him up in bed. He continues to hold the end of the belt loosely in his free hand, like a leash. The Doctor grimaces as he rises, leaning on the Master for support. Together, they walk slowly to the adjoining bathroom. The tub has been filled to its rim and the water sparkles in the flickering candlelight. The Doctor sighs in hesitant relief as the Master finally removes the belt from his neck. He hopes for a respite, some time to heal. 

But then he notices something else. There is a red cushion on the floor beside the bath. It should be innocuous enough, but intuition tells him the meaning is sinister. His fears are confirmed when the Master gestures unceremoniously to the spot where his gaze is already fixated.

"Kneel."

"Please..." The Doctor grasps the Master's arm in desperation. "I c-can't..."

"Surely you didn't think I was finished with you?" The Master smirks. "You know better. Now, I said _kneel_. Facing the tub."

The Doctor remains frozen in place, clutching pitifully at the Master’s now-rumpled sleeve. 

“I see we’ll have to do this the hard way,” the other Time Lord sighs, pushing the Doctor onto his knees. His arms are pinned behind his back and metal cuffs encircle both wrists as the blade finds its way back to his throat. The Master is careful not to touch the open wound, but the message is clear.

"Now then," he murmurs, "I would advise you to take a nice, deep breath."

“Master, listen to me,” the Doctor chokes. “I’m hurt. I can’t take anymore…”

"Shhhh," the Master lulls. "I'll only give you a few moments to take advantage of my kindness."

The Doctor tries in vain to steady his erratic breathing. He will _not_ beg; it has never done him any good. He knows the other Time Lord is waiting, assessing his physiological responses for a sign of readiness. So be it. Refusing to allow himself another moment of tortured anticipation, he takes a ragged gasp, closes his eyes, and nods.

His face hits the water hard; the cold is such a shock, he almost forgets to hold his breath. There is a burning ache in his lungs. Everything hurts. The Doctor tries to protect himself by retreating into his own mind. The Master wants him to remember their past, the moment he surrendered himself. They were mere children! How could he have predicted Koschei would come to this, assuming control over his very life or death? But he too must accept blame for not setting boundaries ⸺ for allowing his Master to own him, body and soul. And how much harm has befallen others while he prayed in vain for the Master’s redemption?

The Doctor picks up the scent of blood in the water. _His_ blood. The Master’s hand remains firm on the back of his head, entwined in his tousled hair, radiating telepathic energy. _Submit, Doctor. You’re mine._ He doesn’t want to lose consciousness again, although it might come as a relief if he allowed himself to slip away. But just when he feels the last of the oxygen depleting from his chest, he is tugged back up with a loud splash. 

The Doctor retches violently as the Master holds him upright. His eyes flicker open and survival instincts compel him to draw breath. It is only just in time. He catches a glimpse of red swirling below before he is plunged back into the freezing water. It would have been easier if the Master hadn’t bothered to pull him out ⸺ but maybe that’s the point.

His lungs are on fire now. He is fading fast, and wonders if this might be the end. _Submit, Doctor._ Yet he is revived once again, and the process repeats until he loses track of how many breaths, how many times he is edged to the brink. The Doctor grows tired of the cycle. So when, once more on the verge of succumbing, he is hauled up like a gasping fish, he fixes the Master with a look of deliberate resolve.

“Do it,” he sputters defiantly. 

“What’s that, Doctor?”

“If you’re going to kill me, Master…just _do it_. No more games.”

The Master laughs in surprise. “I’m not going to kill you, my dear Doctor,” he replies. “Not tonight. This particular regeneration is far too gorgeous to throw away so soon.” He leans closer and brushes taunting lips against the Doctor’s ear as if sharing a secret. “But I promise you…when the time _does_ come, I intend to take your input into consideration. Your… _requests_ , if you will.”

The Doctor can only stare at him in silent resignation. There is time enough to be horrified of the future. But right now, water and blood is trailing to the floor, staining the violet silk robe the Master chose for him, and he is spent. He doubles over in agony as another wave of coughing wracks his body. The Master removes the cuffs and rubs his back until the episode passes. It seems like an eternity. He then helps the Doctor to his feet and plants a kiss on his brow. Their bodies are slick like the tile beneath them; the blood on their clothes, their skin, and down to the marble floor appears almost black in the dying candlelight. The two Time Lords stand together in a brief moment of tortured intimacy. 

"Clean yourself up," the Master orders softly, at once both gentle and firm. "Take your time. There’s gauze and disinfectant in the vanity, and a clean robe on the towel rack. I'll handle everything else." He turns to leave, with one last glance at a bowed but unbroken Doctor, left alone in the macabre chaos of the cavernous room.

The Doctor’s soul is laid bare in suffering. It is a trait that has spanned regenerations. 

And the Master had felt it all, too, through the psychic link between them — had allowed his mental barriers down just enough to know the fear, the panic, the…acceptance? _Beautiful_ , he thinks. _So beautiful._ He allows himself a private smile as the bathroom door clicks shut behind him. _My brave little Theta._

**Author's Note:**

> This particular scenario was inspired by Laura Antoniou's brilliant novel, _The Inheritor_ (book 6 of the stunning _Marketplace_ series). One notable scene prompted me to write a Doctor/Master fic with a similar premise. I hope you enjoyed this new piece - it was a long time in the making!


End file.
